Just Be
by SHERlockedFangirl
Summary: John Watson stood in a position he had hoped he would never have to be in again. He couldn't decide which was worse, Sherlock being hospitalised after his lying, scheming wife had shot him in the chest, or Sherlock being hospitalised after a suicide attempt by overdose. Follow on from The Beauty of the End (Inspired by Just Be by Paloma Faith)


Inspired by Just Be by Paloma Faith

John Watson stood in a position he had hoped he would never have to be in again. He couldn't decide which was worse, Sherlock being hospitalised after his lying, scheming wife had shot him in the chest, or Sherlock being hospitalised after a suicide attempt by overdose. As the thoughts chased each other around his head, John looked to Sherlock, still unconscious on the standard issue hospital bed. _This_ , John thought, _was definitely worse_. When Mary had shot Sherlock, the consulting detective had nearly died, but it was so much worse, so much more serious when he had nearly died because he'd wanted to die, that he'd purposefully pumped his body so full of drugs that it would have surely killed him if John had not arrived on time. _Yes_ , the ex-army doctor decided, _this was worse_.

As stood at the end of the bed and he stared at the pale, lifeless being that was laid out it, John's mind replayed the moment he had walked back into his old flat and found Sherlock.

 _It had been weeks since John had heard from Sherlock. Both he and Mary had tried to contact him, but with no success. Mycroft had been unsurprisingly unhelpful, refusing to give John any details about Sherlock and how he had been. The third time Mycroft rejected John's plea for information had been the last straw. That's how John had found himself in a cab and on his way to Baker Street for the first time since the Magnussen disaster at Christmas._

 _As he entered the building, it had struck John just how quiet it was. There was no noise from Mrs Hudson's flat, but that was to be expected as she always went to visit her sister over Christmas and New Year. However the silence coming from 221B was eerie and unsettling. Cautiously, John climbed the seventeen steps, careful not to disturb the silence but still failing. He pulled his key from the inside pocket of his jacket, the same jacket – he realised – that he was wearing when he last saw Sherlock all those weeks ago on the runway, just before Mycroft had stepped between them and whisked his younger brother away to do important, Moriarty related business._

 _The sight that greeted John as he opened the door to the flat made his stomach drop in abject terror, and would probably haunt him for the rest of his life._

 _Sherlock, pale and cold lying on the floor, drug paraphernalia littering the floor surrounding him. John honestly believed that his heart had stopped in that moment. Luckily his instincts kicked in and before he realised what he was doing, John was on the phone to the emergency services and an ambulance was on its way._

 _ _Deja-vu came like a kick in the st__ _omach as he whispered words that echoed the pain of years ago when the paramedics wouldn't let him accompany Sherlock in the ambulance._

" _Let me though, he's my friend, he's my friend…"_

 _John struggled until he felt a strong pair of arms come around his shoulders and hold him back. John collapsed back into them and stopped struggling. Sherlock was loaded into the ambulance, and just before they shut the doors, John could see Sherlock's whole body tense up, his head thrown back. A sezuire. He looked around to see the unmistakable face of Mycroft Holmes, looking even more terrified and worried than John had ever seen him. Wordlessly, Mycroft guided John towards his mysterious, black car that followed after the ambulance._

And here they were, again.

John looked at his best friend once more as the memory faded.

Mycroft had left after about an hour of staring worriedly at Sherlock's unconscious form, and that was about half an hour ago, but now he re-entered the room, clutching something in his hand.

Silently, he thrust his hand out the John, who automatically took it from him. After a curt nod, and another worried glance at his little brother before exiting the room once more and leaving the detective and his blogger alone.

John looked down to his hand to see that what he had taken from Mycroft was an envelope addressed to him in a recognisable, messy scrawl. The scrawl of his best friend, the world's one and only consulting detective.

John collapsed into the chair beside Sherlock's bed, trying desperately to stop his hands from shaking as he opened the envelope.

 ** _John,_**

 ** _I've never been very good at emotions - that was always your department. But I feel the need to express my feelings whilst I still can. Everything I have done over these past five years has been for you, John. I died for you, I killed for you and I lived for you. I have been in love with you for a very long time John Watson, and I have tried to be selfless for you. I planned your wedding to Mary, I convinced to forgive Mary because I want you to be happy above all else. I have tried to be selfless so please forgive me this act of selfishness._**

 ** _I never intended to cause you pain through my actions, and I hope you accept my most sincere apologies for that. But I can't keep living through this pain anymore, John. Everything always hurts and it's so illogical that it makes me want to rip my hair out. I can't live in a world where I feel heartbreak this acutely._**

 ** _I'm sorry to do this to you again, but now I know you've got Mary, I know that you will be looked after. Give my love to her, and to your daughter. I hope she grows to be like you, because the world needs more people like John Watson._**

 ** _Always yours,_**

 ** _SH_**

As his eyes roamed over the many tubes and wires attached to his friend, John felt his heart clench. What had he been thinking, going back to Mary? John Watson was honestly the most idiotic person in the whole world. Because there was a person that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, wanted to grow old with, and it wasn't his wife.

It was Sherlock, always Sherlock.

The realisation caused tears to spring to his eyes, and he covered his mouth with his free hand to cover a sob. How could he have been so blind? How could he have ever wanted anything more than the brilliant, extraordinary man who he had the pleasure to call his best friend? John thought of his life with Mary, and felt nothing. He pictured his life with Sherlock, if they were partners in every sense of the word.

They probably wouldn't always be happy, especially at the beginning, but that was okay. John would be satisfied for himself and Sherlock to be unhappy together, even if they were unhappy forever. Really, there was no other person on the Earth that John would rather be unhappy with.

John looked back to Sherlock's face. He looked so exposed, unprotected and weak. But that was okay, because they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and they could seen each other like this, and know that someone would always be looking out for them. His heart swelled with love as his eyes took in every aspect of Sherlock's face, his beautiful, arching cheekbones that he wanted to take hold of with his surgeon's hands and cradle them gently, his lush, cupid bow lips.

On reflection, John couldn't understand how he didn't realise sooner that it was Sherlock, and not Mary that he wanted to be with. No matter how many times they had gone their separate ways, John always found himself drawn back like a moth in the night, and Sherlock was a shining beacon of light.

As he thought this, a sigh came from the man on the bed. Immediately, John bolted out of his chair, grasped Sherlock's hand in his and leant over the detective to watch his face. Sherlock's face creased in pain momentarily, before relaxing back into a state of unconsciousness.

John sat back in the chair after releasing a breath that he didn't realise he had been holding, still maintaining his grasp on his detective's hand, his thumb carefully circling Sherlock's knuckles before brining it to his lips to place a tender kiss there. John wanted to kiss Sherlock properly, but he had to be content with this, at least for now.

Now he knew how Sherlock felt, now he knew for sure how he himself felt, John wanted everything. But would Sherlock? Sure, Sherlock had declared his love for John in his suicide note (John's stomach clenched at the terrible reminder), but that didn't mean he would still want to be with John when he woke up. After all the pain John had put him though, he would be surprised if Sherlock wanted anything to do with him. After all, Sherlock had believed that being with Mary would make him happy. And John had believed that too.

John had always grown up thinking that he would have his 'dream life', a normal life of becoming a doctor, getting married to a lovely woman and starting a family. But after all that had happened – Afghanistan, getting shot, meeting Sherlock, watching him die not once, not twice but now four times, and marrying an international assassin – John realised that he would never have been happy that way. He could never have 'normal'.

Sherlock would constantly wear him out, cause frustration beyond words, heartache that couldn't be described, and anger like John had never known, and yet none of that mattered anymore. Because seeing Sherlock like this, in this place, it was like a wave that washed all of those feelings away, leaving only adoration and overwhelming love like John had never experienced.

Leaving Mary would be hard, especially with the baby on the way, and there would be days when he probably regretted it, but John knew that it was for the best. It was his only chance a being happy with the man he loved.

"John."

A rasping voice whispered his name from the bed. John watched as Sherlock screwed his face up, before rapidly blinking, trying to open his eyes, calling out once more.

"John."

John could see the amount of effort that Sherlock was putting into just one syllable. One of the machines attached to Sherlock began screaming in warning, alerting probably everyone in this private hospital run by Mycroft's minions

"Sherlock," John stood back up, still keeping his firm grip on Sherlock's hands that were now squeezing his back just as tightly, "Sherlock, love, don't say anything."

"John."

"No, Sherlock. It's okay. You just have to lie still, it's okay, you're here next to me. You don't need to say anything." John pressed the button that would call for the nurse.

"John." Sherlock gasped for breath. Eyes nearly bulging out of his skull, fixed manically on John.

"Shhh, Sherlock." John began to brush the hair out of Sherlock's eyes, just as the medical team began to rush through the door. "Just be alive for me, okay? Can you do that? Just be. Just exist. Just fight."

As the doctors and nurses surrounded Sherlock, John got pushed back, away form Sherlock. John could see the panic in the detectives eyes as he began to struggle against the help of the medical team. They tried to hold his arms and legs down to stop the struggling, but no the panic had really set him. John tried to block out the scream terminating from his friend, but he couldn't, he just couldn't. He pushed his way through the doctors and nurses, forced them to remove their hands from Sherlock's body, and took both of Sherlock's hands in his own. He could hear himself talking but couldn't recall a word he said.

Eventually, Sherlock calmed down and allowed himself to be treated. The drugs hadn't entirely left his system yet, so his body needed rest. But John couldn't let Sherlock fall unconscious again whilst there was so much that he wanted to tell him.

When they were alone again, John gathered his courage and took a deep breathe. He called Sherlock's name and immediately had his attention. Pale blue met deep blue and an electricity crackled through the air, and John knew that this was right.

"Sherlock, I think we need to let go of everything that we've been through. We'll let go together okay and unfold out new future with each other." John looked away as his thoughts came tumbling out of his mouth. He chose to look at their joined hands instead. It was somehow easier to talk this way. "I know we'll probably drive each other utterly crazy, and break each other's hearts, but I'm prepared to fight for us. When you get sick of the everyday predictability and you're bored to tears, when you never want to hear my voice. Even if you tell me to walk out the door and never come back, I will always fight for us, and I will always stay with you.

"John."

Sherlock's voice was quiet and weak, and John's eyes immediately moved to meet Sherlock's. There were tears gathering in his sharp, intelligent eyes.

"No, you don't have to say anything, you're still recovering. Shh, it's okay." John moved his hand to Sherlock's face, gently wiping the tears that were now trailing a path down his face.

"Why-" Sherlock began, but John quickly cut him off, wanting him to rest, he would need a lot of that over the coming weeks. The hand wiping the tears away stopped their movement and delicately cupped Sherlock's face, keeping Sherlock's eyes on him.

John needed Sherlock to understand exactly what he was trying to say, so he opened up his soul and said three words the that he had failed to tell him before, the three words that would have changed their lives, and still would change their lives.

"I love you."

There was a small intake of breath from both men. But as soon as the words came out of John's mouth, h knew that it was the truest thing he had ever said.

"I love you, you complete mad man. And if you ever try anything like this again Sherlock, I will finish the job myself, got it?"

A small chuckle escaped the man in the bed, a wince of pain following. John chucked himself, but sobered at Sherlock's pain. He let go of Sherlock's face and began to run his hands through the luxurious, practically sinful curls on the detective's head. A small, tired, yet happy smile broke free on John's face as he gazed down at the man he loved, who was valiantly trying to fight off sleep.

"Go to sleep Sherlock, I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

Sherlock's eyes began to droop even more, but the man was stubborn as he was clever, and continued to struggle against sleep.

"But-"

John placed on finger on the cupid bow lips.

"Shh."

And with that, Sherlock drifted into unconsciousness, and John felt a great lightness in his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, they would be okay.


End file.
